that's me in the corner, me in the spotlight
by Victoria-Eliza
Summary: He's never had unrealistic expectations of life in New York. Future!Fic. Kurt/Blaine, Rachel. Oneshot.


**Title**: that's me in the corner, that's me in the spotlight  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG-13  
><strong>Pairings<strong>: Kurt/Blaine, Rachel  
><strong>Spoilers(if any<strong>): 2.22 (New York)  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Nothing _too _bad, but I'll mention just in case: language, violence,  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>~11,500  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Future!fic; He's never had unrealistic expectations of life in New York.

**A/N: **Title is from REM's Losing My Religion, though it has no connection to the piece. Please R&R!

* * *

><p>He's never had unrealistic expectations of life in New York.<p>

Despite opinions to the contrary, he's not naive, not really. In some aspects of life, maybe, but not where it counts. In fact, out of the three of them, he's probably the most world-weary.

Rachel's sheltered and spoiled. He loves her dearly, but it's undeniable. She's never known hurt or heartache—boy-trouble notwithstanding—and though he envies her that, he also knows that it makes her vulnerable. Too vulnerable.

And as for Blaine—dear, sweet, misguided Blaine—well, he likes to see the best in people, and does so right up until they force him to stop. So trusting and honest that he's more likely to invite the Big Bad Wolf to afternoon tea than he is to send him on his way.

"Why do you think that you felt the need to eat Little Red's Grandmother? What were your motivations toward such a violent and senseless choice of action? I sense an unresolved source of tension in your life, and that's okay, we'll work on it. Together. I'm here for you. You're not alone."

Much as he loves the hapless boy, Kurt knows just which one of them is as like to get the ax in their back.

He loves Rachel and Blaine; it surprises him sometimes at just how much, given the relatively brief time he's known them. He loves them, which is why it's so hard to watch as this monster of a city swallows them whole and spits them out again, and again, and again.

—

Kurt has been told "no" so many times in his life that it barely even registers as a blip on his radar anymore. It's not that he anticipates it or expects it—he's not nearly so jaded—more that he accepts it as a highly probable response.

_No Kurt, you can't stare at the pretty, pretty boy. No Kurt, that song is not appropriate for you. No Kurt, that design just isn't right for the showcase, did you not understand the brief at all?_

In any situation, there is a fifty percent chance that you will be told "no". It's just simple math: two possible outcomes, yes or no, and one of them has to be chosen. It's as simple as. Painted black and white, with no shades of grey allowed.

Even in his Technicolor world, black and white are staples; the foundation from which all else is built and erected.

It's as simple as.

Blaine and Rachel, they're not like him. Not at all. Because while they've had their share of setbacks, their position in the world has always been clear. They are the shining stars. The bright, sparkling talent to which everyone else is compared. Not because they're any better, but because it's just who they are.

Blaine is the epitome of a leader; someone who's never vied for the position yet who steps into the role naturally, like a second skin.

Rachel... well, she's just too damn _loud_ to ever be pushed into a corner and forgotten about. She'll tell you every day just how great her talent is until you start to believe her at face value, and then she'll sing for you and you'll never doubt her again. Her talent should be enough to speak for itself—and, truth be told, it is—but not to sell herself utterly and completely would be betraying the essence of Rachel Berry.

They are shining stars, both of them, but in a city so alight with artificial light the stars aren't often seen, let alone appreciated. They're always there, of course, but you just can't see them.

And therein lies the problem.

:::

"We're good." Rachel croaks, the hoarseness in her voice making the mere motion of speaking difficult. "We're so, so good."

"We are." Kurt confirms, voice light and airy, yet somehow still completely and utterly assured.

"Not good enough." Blaine replies, as wry as he is bitter, and somehow this makes the words ring truer.

Rachel makes a scoffing sound in the back of her throat that's probably supposed to be scornful but really just sounds painful. "_Clearly_."

Silently, they sit together in the tiny, cramped space that is Kurt and Rachel's apartment, each sitting as far apart as is possible in the claustrophobic room. To sit too closely would be to admit defeat; to admit that they need the comfort that they could so easily seek from one another.

A large panorama of the Manhattan skyline dominates nearly the entirety of the back wall—Kurt's choice, an attempt to hide the hideous wallpaper that he's not allowed to change as per the lease agreement—and it is this which the trio focus upon, now and always.

"We'll make it." Rachel vows, vehement and fierce. "Whatever it takes, anything, I'll do it."

She makes this same promise every night without fail, even when she's alone in the apartment, and as always when neither Kurt nor Blaine reply, she is met with only silence.

Kurt wonders always if perhaps that vow means that Rachel deserves it more than he does, more than Blaine does. Because they could never make a vow like that.

It's all well and good to say that he'll do whatever it takes, but it's quite another to mean it.

And he could never—will never—mean it. Unlike Rachel, there are things that he will always put before success.

His father; his family, if not Finn and Carole separately; Blaine.

Occasionally, he forces himself to wonder if Rachel makes the list, but he never decides upon an answer, try though he may. He wonders if he's naive to hope that he makes hers, or too jaded that he knows with near-certainty that even if such a list exists, which is doubtful, he is not on it.

:

"I'm in love with you." Kurt whispers later that night, head resting upon Blaine's chest in place of a pillow.

Three little words have expanded to become five since they've moved to New York and embarked upon their "adult" lives. The transition happened almost overnight, as the two of them took in the vast urban sprawl that was to be their home and the options that it afforded them both.

He loves Blaine: he'll always, always love Blaine, without a shadow of a doubt.

But it's Blaine that makes his list. Not his relationship with Blaine. Because while he's not willing to put his career before his relationship, he will always put _loving_ Blaine before being _in love_ with Blaine.

One will forever remain true, while the other could change in the blink of an eye.

"I'm in love with you, too." Blaine replies, clumsily reaching out and sweeping Kurt's bangs off his forehead. "Like, stupidly and insanely."

A smile quirks at Kurt's mouth, "I'm insane. You're stupid." It's almost completely nonsensical, his wit has a tendency to leave him when he's fatigued, but they're both exhausted and it's sweet and secure and it lulls them both into an easy slumber.

:

Blaine would never dream of usurping someone else's position, he's just not that type, but Senior Year that's essentially what he does.

Little by little, the majority of Finn's solos go to Blaine, the change so slow and so gradual that nobody notices until several months into the school year, not even Blaine and Rachel.

It's Kurt who approaches Finn about it, finally, a week before Regionals, and his stepbrother's response is so nonchalant that it immediately throws Kurt off.

"I don't know, man." Finn scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, "I guess I'm just not as into it as I was before."

"Into it?"

"Singing and stuff. I love music and all, it's just that..."

Kurt, arching a brow, silently prompts his stepbrother forward.

"I kind of feel like I'd just as soon as play the drums in the background as I would sing up front. Is that weird?"

"Yes." Kurt responds promptly, honest to the last. "Finn, if this is about Blaine at all-"

"-no! Dude, no. Blaine's cool, I know he'd never try to faze me out of the group or anything. He's not Jesse."

"Then why?"

Finn hesitates, looks at Kurt earnestly. "Singing isn't my life, Kurt. It's never gonna be, and I'm cool with that. It just isn't for me. Don't get me wrong, I love Glee Club and all, but once I get to college..."

"...you're not going to be rushing to join any vocal groups or choral arrangements." Kurt deduces.

"Yeah. Blaine's good—like, really good, and he seems to really like singing, so I figure why not let him take lead."

Kurt, shaking his head, looks at his stepbrother with new eyes. "Who would've thought that Finn Hudson would be the first of us to really grow up?"

Finn cracks a smile, pulls the slighter boy into a one-armed embrace. "Don't go spreading it around, bro. I've got a reputation to maintain."

"As the dumb yet lovable jock?"

"Yep. Besides, if we're talking about grownups, you're the one who's practically married already..."

:

Everyone had asked if he and Blaine would be staying together after the summer ended and they moved to New York for college. Blaine would always reply with a simple yes, but Kurt grew more and more vehement in his responses as the summer drew to a close and the date of their departure loomed.

"What, they think that just because we're going to college we can't be trusted to maintain what has never been anything other than a very successful relationship?" Kurt snaps, storming out through the patio doors and into his garden one afternoon in early August. Blaine trails after him, lingers awhile in the doorway as he watches his boyfriend pound back and forth on the grass, size eleven Doc Martin's flattening any and all growth that stand in their path.

"C'mere." Blaine says finally, reaching out his hands and grasping the other boy's slender wrists, gently pulling him further away from the house until they reach the large oak under which they have spent many a lazy summer afternoon. "Sit down and just breathe for awhile, okay?"

Emitting one last frustrated sigh, Kurt acquiesces, but not without casting a disdainful look at the glorified dirt which he is being asked to sit on. At Blaine's urging, he takes a few ridiculously dramatized breaths before he gives up, pulling his knees to his chest and screaming into his lap.

"Better?" Blaine asks, several minutes later when finally Kurt emerges from his self-made cocoon, face flushed pink from the exertion.

"Much," a brief smile flits across Kurt's lips, disappearing almost as quickly as it arrives, "thank you for asking."

Blaine shrugs, leans his head back against the trunk of the tree. "You wanna talk about it?"

"What I want is for everyone to please stop predicting the end for us." Kurt snaps, resisting the urge to scream again. Forcing himself to calm down, he drops his head to Blaine's shoulder. "Sorry." He mumbles, voice muffled by the fabric of Blaine's cardigan.

Blaine sighs, casts his eyes upward to what little of the sky he can see through the thick branches. "Not your fault."

"Then whose?" Kurt asks, tone taking on its usual sarcastic edge. "Please tell me, because I would love to return the favor and make their last summer at home absolutely miserable."

"Carole didn't mean to upset you, Kurt. You know she'd never deliberately say anything to hurt you."

"Blaine," Kurt says through gritted teeth, voice more than a little strained. "You taking her side right now will literally send me over the edge that I am already teetering on, and I will _lose it_."

"I'm not on her side, Kurt. I don't agree with anything she said, of course I don't, but I can see where she's coming from."

"She all but told us that we should break up, Blaine! How can you possibly see where she's coming from?"

Sighing again, Blaine closes his eyes, "Because she made some valid points, ones that any couple in our position would do well to take to heart. Wait," he reaches out and pulls Kurt back to him before the taller boy has a chance to bolt, holds him tightly. "Hear me out, Kurt."

He waits until some of the tension has left his boyfriend's body before continuing, "I'm not saying that we should break up. I promise that you will never hear me say that this summer, or ever, actually, if I can help it. But Carole's not entirely wrong in what she says... Actually it's fairly sound advice."

Kurt scoffs.

"It is, and you know it." Blaine shakes him gently, "It's just not the right advice for us. Think about it from her perspective, Kurt. As far as she's concerned, we're just another high school relationship. A practice run before we meet whoever we're supposed to be with."

"We are _not_ just a practice run." Kurt says fiercely, eyes glinting with stubborn tears he won't let fall.

Blaine hides a smile, "Who are you telling here, Kurt?"

They sit in silence for a moment before Kurt finally returns Blaine's tight embrace. "I said that I was never saying goodbye to you, and I meant it."

"I know."

:

His dad calls the next day, just as Kurt is leaving his last class of the afternoon. Waving goodbye to some of the people he's closer to, he quickly answers the phone with a chirpy greeting as he hurries down the street.

"Hey, kiddo. What's up?"

"Nothing much, I just finished college and I'm on my way to meet Blaine. I hope you're not doing anything, because you've just agreed to be my source of entertainment for the next twenty blocks. It's rush hour so there's no way I'd get a cab."

"Glad to be of service."

He chatters happily to his father for the duration of the walk to Blaine's apartment, telling him all about the drama of FIT, listening eagerly to his Dad's tales of the clueless customers who had arrived at the shop this past week in return, and it's with a deep ache of loneliness that he rings off.

He misses his dad—of course he does, how could he ever not?—but he's learned to live with that particular ache over the past few months. He's had no other choice but to; plane tickets are expensive and it's just too long a drive to make as often as they'd like. Plus, his dad has work, and he himself has an awful lot of coursework to contend with.

College is some strange mixture of easy and difficult that he's only just beginning to come to terms with, though he's well into his second semester at FIT. Easy, because he's talented at what he does and he enjoys doing it. Difficult, because not only does he have to fight to stay on trend in his pieces, he also has to be unique and avant-garde, all the while still remaining true to himself as a designer.

It's frustrating and nerve-wracking and he's constantly pushing himself to be better, but it's so, so worth it every time he sees the finished product: sloppy and imperfect most of the time—he's still learning and his craftsmanship has far to go, but he's more than on par with his classmates so that's fine, for now—but utterly his.

On top of that, he's also determined that he work his voice as often as possible, and so he's signed himself up for classes at a vocal school two evenings a week. It's nothing like the intensive study that Rachel and Blaine are doing, but it's enough for the moment. He can't do everything; he'd learned that the hard way as college prospectus' kept piling in and he was forced to choose what he wanted to do as a career. He loves fashion, he does, but music holds a special place in his heart and it always will. He's worked too hard at it for too long to let it go.

Besides which, living with Rachel Berry and dating Blaine basically means that not an evening passes where he's not pulled into exercising his voice, whether it be providing a harmony or running scales, singing others' lines in their absence or practicing duets.

It's enough for the moment.

Shaking his head, he quickly dispels any and all thoughts of discontent that threaten to creep up on him, because they have no place in his life. He's happy, happier than he ever thought possible, and he's not about to forget that. He's lived through misery—he knows what he's gained since, and it's far more than what little he's lost.

Fumbling in his bag for his keys, he quickly lets himself into the building and makes his way inside, ignoring the elevator and moving instead toward the staircase, beginning the arduous trek to the sixth floor. He's been relying on public transport entirely too much lately and he needs the exercise.

(He's considered joining a gym on a few occasions, not least because he and Blaine could go together and he'd get to watch his super-hot boyfriend working out, but when given the choice of a selection of items from Marc Jacob's new collection or paying to keep fit… well, the choice is clear.)

He's proud to note that he's not even the slightest bit out of breath upon reaching the top, even after having walked from school, and it's with an air of superiority that he knocks on the door, head held high as he waits for his boyfriend to let him in.

"You have a key," is the first thing that Blaine says, in lieu of hello. "Why do you never use your key?"

Kurt rolls his eyes, calls out a sarcastic greeting as he brushes past Blaine and into the apartment. "Because, Blaine, I'd like to keep some tiny level of formality between us. You know, maybe pretend that we're not as insanely codependent as everyone seems to think."

Frowning, Blaine shuts the door behind him. "I always use my key to your place. Should I not do that anymore?"

"What? Of course you should, don't be ridiculous." Kurt waves a hand dismissively, "That's different."

Blaine blinks, considers it. "How, exactly?"

"My apartment is where we spend time together. Yours is just where you hang out when you're not with me or Rachel. Like a drop in center." He smiles beatifically, shifts the strap of his satchel further up his shoulder.

"Kurt, explain to me exactly which part of that statement doesn't_ scream_ codependency to you."

Huffing, Kurt says with exaggerated slowness, "I said that we should pretend not to be so codependent. Not that we weren't. Now hurry up, I want to ruin whatever progress I made by walking all the way here by stuffing my face with chocolate cake at that little cafe down the street."

"Is that why your face is all flushed? I knew that it wasn't cold enough outside to warrant that amount of rosiness."

Oblivious to his boyfriend's glare, Blaine slips his feet into his loafers and grabs his wallet. "Ready?"

:

"I don't think I'd ever seen you eat solid food before we moved here," Blaine remarks, smiling as Kurt polishes off his extra-large dessert, washing it down with the last dregs of his (still non-fat) grande mocha latte.

"I was a cheerleader all of Senior Year, Blaine." Kurt points out, halfway between amused and offended. "Coach Sylvester promised public humiliation to any Cheerio that dared gain more than half a pound. I had enough hassle in high school without pictures of my bare stomach labeled "FATTIE" in black sharpie posted everywhere."

"She really did that?"

Kurt nods, reaches across and steals some of the curly-haired boy's remaining biscotti. "Uh huh. Except in Santana's case, after she had the boob job, it was "WHORE" scrawled across her, thankfully clothed, breasts."

"You know, I actually think that I might miss her." Blaine muses, standing up and throwing their rubbish in the trash can nearby.

"Coach Sylvester or Santana?"

"Well, one called me Frodo all year long, while the other persistently and unashamedly demanded I tell her all about our sex life. I'm gonna go with both."

Laughing, Kurt allows Blaine to pull him to his feet and together they leave the café, hands linked between their bodies as they make their way down the sidewalk and back to Blaine's.

"It's our two-year anniversary next week." Kurt says conversationally, casually swinging their arms back and forth in time with their steps.

Blaine grins, waggles his eyebrows, "And our one-year anniversary the week after that."

"We are not celebrating the date that we lost our virginities, Blaine." Kurt informs him in exasperation, "Why would anybody do that? Why, Blaine? Why would you do that?"

"It was a very special day for us!"

"No, it was painful and awkward—not to mention _painfully awkward_."

"It was _beautiful_." Blaine corrects him sternly, still grinning. "One of the most magical nights of my life."

"Mm, and had you not decided to come down with a fever the day before, our two "anniversaries" would have coincided. As it was, we spent the evening laying in your bed eating chicken noodle soup and watching RENT. Fitting, for the near-Victorian relationship we had prior to sex, but altogether frustrating when I had planned extensively to lose the last of my innocence."

"We made up for it the week after." Blaine says soothingly, flashes of _that night _running through his mind. "We totally made up for it."

Smiling despite himself, Kurt too allows himself to drift into the past for a moment. "We did. But enough about that—we're in public, in case you hadn't noticed. What are we doing next week? I'm thinking we kick Rachel out and I prepare us a loving home-cooked meal?" His face falls when Blaine hesitates. "What?"

"It's just… I kind of want to curl up with chicken soup and a movie again. It was the first time we got to fall asleep in each other's arms and wake up together in the morning, and I remember loving how special it felt, even if I was dosed up on medication at the time. Is that lame?"

"Unbelievably so." Kurt assures him, but relents when Blaine breaks out the puppy-dog eyes. "Fine, if that's what you want, who am I to argue? We'll have it your way—it'll be lame and boring, but utterly sweet all the same. Our relationship in a nutshell. Just promise me that it won't be as PG-13 as last time? I would like to get _some_ action this time around."

"But that's what Thursday two-weeks is for!" Blaine replies, eyes glinting mischievously, before frowning as he thinks of something. "Hey, Kurt? Why did all of our sleepovers in the early days end with my being either intoxicated or heavily medicated?"

"…you're the one that wanted to sing that date-rape song, Blaine."

They laugh and bicker all the way home, hands clutched tightly. He's happy; he really, really is.

:

"You haven't said anything about Blaine and me staying together." Kurt says quietly as he and his father make their way to the airport, having bidden a tearful farewell to Carole and Finn at the house. "You're about the only one who hasn't given an opinion."

"I am?" Burt shrugs, keeps his eyes on the road ahead.

"Yes. Which is strange, because you're just about the only person I'd ever listen to."

Burt shakes his head, says gruffly. "You're not breaking up with that boy, no matter what I say."

"No," replies Kurt, tentatively, "but I'd still like to hear your opinion."

"Your apartments are thirty minutes apart on foot, right?"

"Thirty-five."

He gives his son a look, "Same difference. That's closer than he lives right now, and you won't have parents or Finn to keep you guys apart."

"We'll both have roommates."

"Doesn't count."

Kurt arches a brow, "Clearly you've never shared space with Rachel Berry."

"Look, all I'm saying is it'll be easier for you two to see each other. A lot easier. But it'll be just as easy not to."

"I don't understand."

"You're moving to New York, kiddo. Do you know how many people live there? You and Blaine, you probably think that you're gonna have it easy because you won't be long distance like Finn and Rachel would've been, but you're not going to the same colleges. You're not gonna have the same classes, not gonna have the same group of friends anymore. It's gonna be a lot easier for you two to find excuses not to meet up. And, y'know, you may find in a couple of months that you're starting to drift apart."

Kurt, biting his bottom lip, can't deny the truth in that.

"I was with you guys at Nationals a couple of months back, Kurt. I saw what it's like there. You're gonna have options, a whole bunch of 'em—it's not just gonna be you and Blaine back in Lima anymore."

"I'm not interested in having options, Dad." He replies, an edge to his voice; he's heard this same argument too many times before.

Burt spares him another glance, indicating to turn left as they near the airport. "Just cause you don't want 'em, doesn't mean they're not gonna be there, Kurt. And, y'know, if you wanna… _pursue_ those options, I won't blame ya. It's college, you're supposed to try new things. But at the same time, if you wanna make things work with Blaine then you won't hear me complaining. I like Blaine, you know I do. You two have been great for one another. Honestly, I've never seen you happier than I have this past year, and he gets credit for a lot of that."

"I've never been happier." Kurt murmurs.

"I'm not saying that you and Blaine are gonna be together forever, cause in all likelihood, you ain't gonna be. But if you love him and he loves you, then I gotta say I'd be real disappointed in the two of you if you were gonna throw that away just so you can mess around for a couple of years, without even trying to make it work."

Indicating once more, Burt pulls into the airport carpark and finds a space. Shutting off the engine, he turns and looks at his son fully.

"Kurt, I don't really give two hoots about who you date, so long as they're good to you and you're good to them. But I want Blaine in your life, in whatever way the two of you agree upon. He was your friend long before he was your boyfriend, and I don't want you to forget that, because when all's said and done—that's what's gonna matter. You two have shared too much to let your relationship fall by the wayside if the two of you break-up."

Unbuckling his seatbelt, Burt leans across the dash and pulls out the airline tickets that he had purchased weeks prior. "When we come up for Thanksgiving dinner, I wanna see Blaine sitting at that table across from me. One way or another."

Eyes glinting with unshed tears, Kurt reaches across the divide and throws his arms around his father. "I love you, Dad."

"I love you too, kiddo." Burt replies, voice a little choked. "And I am so, so proud of you."

Pulling back, Kurt sniffles and wipes hastily at his eyes.

"It's gonna be hard, Kurt—I'm not telling you it's not gonna be hard—but it's gonna be worth it."

::

"I'm Townsperson number three." Rachel says flatly, not looking up from her place on the sofa when he arrives home later that evening, still flushed and delighted from having spent the afternoon talking and laughing and loving Blaine. He locks and bolts the door behind him, setting it on the latch, and flicks out his phone to send a quick text to his boyfriend: **Home now. See you 2moro. Love U.**

"Your audition didn't go so well?" Kurt replies, the sympathy in his voice genuine. He knows all too well the sting of rejection, but for Rachel it's an entirely new experience, one she's had to learn to cope with since the beginning of college. Seeing her break down into tears on more than one occasion those first few months, back when they were still learning how to co-inhabit peacefully together, and many times since then has put paid to any petty jealousies still felt between them. It's with deep concern that he perches delicately on the coffee table opposite her and takes her hand in his.

"That's the thing," Rachel bites her trembling lower lip, and he can tell she's seconds away from breaking down and sobbing. "It did go well. I hit every note flawlessly, I've run through it again and again in my mind—it was perfect, Kurt. My portrayal of the character, my singing… I gave it my absolute all, and it garnered me Townsperson number three."

"You're only a freshman, Rachel." He points out, rubbing circles on the back of her hand soothingly. "And a young one at that. You're in a category where the girls are three, four years your senior. Did any other freshmen get a lead role?"

Shaking her head, she chokes out a strangled "no" before she pulls her hand away from him and buries her head in her arms, her body wracked with silent sobs.

"Well, there you go then." He moves to sit beside her, wraps his arm around her and pulls her in close. "You're amazing, Rachel. You know I wouldn't say that if it wasn't true."

"But I'm not the best—the girl that got the lead, I've heard her sing; she's really good. Better than me. Her technique is flawless."

"And yours will be too, you've just got to give it time. That's why you're at college, Rachel. To learn. It's kind of the whole point of the exercise. Well, that and to get drunk and sleep with as many guys as possible, but neither of us partake in that particular degree system. Seriously though, you'll get there. I know you will."

"How can you be so sure?" She hiccups, eyes red and puffy as she finally allows him to pull her arms away.

He smiles warmly, "Because Rachel Berry was destined to be a star, and she's not going to let anything or anyone stand in her way. And if she has to don a hideous dress and hide her pretty face under a bonnet along the way? Well, that's the stuff that great memoirs are made of."

"Are you saying that because you believe it's true, or because you want your name mentioned in the book as the person who kept my spirits high even when they threatened to languish in the despair of my failures?"

He tilts his head to the side, considers the question. "Both," he decides finally, tapping her on the nose as he gets to his feet and swings his bag over his shoulder again. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a ton of coursework to attend to."

She forces a laugh, "That's what you get for frolicking with your boyfriend all afternoon."

"Jealousy is a terrible thing, Miss Berry!" He calls back over his shoulder, oblivious to the strange expression that flits across his roommate's face.

"Yes," she utters quietly to the empty room, "I know."

:

He's running late again; his erratic schedule somehow always manages to coincide with Manhattan rush-hour, and both the streets and the subway are thronged with people making their way to and fro. It's with a grit of his teeth that he joins the masses in line for the subway, squaring his shoulders and making himself as large as possible (which really isn't very large at all) so as to keep from lagging behind in the crowd.

This is the thing he hates most about New York.

He can handle the noise and the air pollution. He can handle the creepy men who leer at him on the rare occasions that his friends convince him to go out clubbing. He can handle being one of a million other talented, hard-working designers who have yet to make it big. He can handle knowing that danger lurks on every street corner, and that he's such an obvious target because of the clothes he wears and how he carries himself.

All of that he can deal with—it's part of the territory. But rush hour? The bane of his existence, bar none.

It's several more minutes until he gets a spot on the train, and even then he's squashed between a sweaty, middle-aged business man and a tattooed guy only a couple of years older than him whose hair is styled in a long, rainbow colored Mohawk and whose skin is punctured with a variety of piercings. The guy smiles at him, open mouth showing off yet more piercings, and Kurt inches away as far as he can, his entire posture assuring that he is _not interested, but thank you anyway_. Unfortunately, this presses him further against the business man, or at least it does right up until he feels a hand graze his ass and linger to which Kurt's response is to yelp and fight his way through and into another carriage.

He _hates _riding the subway.

"I have a new traumatic public transport experience to post." Kurt announces as he steps into his apartment and goes through the usual motions of locking them in for the night. Why is he always the last one home again? "I think this even may beat Blaine's "a stranger licked my neck" story."

"I don't think anything can possibly ever beat that," Blaine replies with a shudder, fingers strumming out random chords on his guitar. "But by all means, do try."

"I'll get The Diary." Rachel volunteers, bounding to her feet and pecking Kurt on the cheek as she passes him on his way to join Blaine on the couch.

'The Diary' (capitalisation is necessary) is the leather-bound notebook that Rachel had purchased their first day in New York, after her dads had left to go home and Kurt and Blaine were busy organizing Kurt's room the way he wanted it. In it they had written their house rules (Blaine being the de facto third roommate right from the very start), both serious and ridiculous alike, in pink sharpie and each signed the page with the illegible, squiggly lines that were to be their signatures when they made it big. As well as that, they also wrote anecdotes of their day-to-day lives in Manhattan, thus beginning what would soon be called "The Subway Diaries".

"Two passes from two _very _different guys within the space of a minute," he declares proudly, accepting the sharpie from Rachel and starting to pen the story neatly within the lines of the book. "There was groping involved," he adds dramatically, "I may have to bleach these jeans just to rid them of the germs."

"Groping?" Blaine and Rachel repeat in near unison, one voice considerably more amused than the other.

"Where'd he touch you?" Rachel asks, giggling as Kurt pulls a face and tells her.

"Relax, Blaine." Kurt waves a hand, laughing a little himself even as his boyfriend asks, somewhat tersely, if he's okay. "I was shocked more than anything else."

"I hate public transport." Blaine sighs, setting down his guitar and crawling to wrap his arms around Kurt, nuzzling his head in the taller boy's neck as the other two echo his statement.

:

"Today is the suckiest day of all sucky days," Blaine declares, dropping face down upon Kurt's bed, not even bothering to remove his jacket or shoes before he does so.

"Hi, Blaine. How was your day?" Kurt says with obvious mirth, placing his bookmark between the pages of his novel and setting it down on his nightstand.

"Ugh!" Blaine groans, burying his face into the pillow. "I hate my life."

"Careful, honey. Your inner Drama Queen is showing," he replies, adjusting his body so that he is lying alongside Blaine, elbow underneath him and palm cupping his cheek. "You're dangerously close to encroaching on Rachel's territory—dramatics are her thing, don'tcha know."

"I know and I don't even care." Blaine says mournfully, not lifting his head from where it lay.

Kurt smiles, dances his fingers up and down his boyfriend's spine. "What happened?"

"Got passed over for a solo. Again. Even though my voice suited the song perfectly. Then I got in a fight with this jerk in my class because he made this really racist comment about another guy in our group. Seriously, who the hell thinks it's okay to say things like that? Then the barista messed up my order and… Today's just been a complete _mess _right from the start."

"I'm sorry," Kurt replies soothingly, squeezing Blaine's bicep comfortingly. (Although, really, he likely enjoys it more than Blaine does, but whatever).

"It's fine, just one of those days, I guess." Blaine sighs, flops over onto his back. "What about you? How was your day?"

He shrugs, picks at an imaginary loose thread on the duvet. "Okay. Same old FIT. We actually got to fit real models this week. Don't worry, they were all female."

Blaine chuckles, "The one downside to having a boyfriend who's a designer—he hangs out with hot models all the time."

"And were I straight, I might appreciate pinning fabric to half-naked girls. As it is, it's a chore listening to their bitching when they feel imaginary pins sticking into them."

"So a sucky day all round then?"

"The suckiest."

:

He's not as careful as he maybe should be: he knows this, has been told it many times both gently and angrily from Blaine and his Dad and even Rachel, on occasion.

That's not to say he's reckless, of course he's not—he knows better than to play with fire, has never longed for the excitement of danger, equates it with stupidity in his mind—he's just not as careful as he should be.

They don't party much, any of the three of them. Each prefer the warmth and comfort of their own home, the familiarity of each other's company, the never-ending collection of classics and movie-musicals flitting across the television screen whenever the mood strikes them. They go out, of course—Blaine especially is never short of company, makes friends as easily and as effortlessly as ever he has, and Kurt has found his niche within his fellow FIT students. Rachel, understandably, finds befriending others somewhat of a challenge at first; she's as abrasive as ever, though a few weeks at Tisch cooled whatever tendencies toward blowing her own trumpet she had, but even she has several firm friends whom she chats with over coffee and dinner and the occasional Broadway show.

Blaine and Kurt, too, are wont to spend an evening out together, scoping out new haunts or revisiting familiar ones, just enjoying being young and (almost) carefree.

Occasionally, though, one of them will take their friends up on their offer of drinks and dancing at a club somewhere that isn't averse to allowing under-agers past the bouncers provided they look respectable and don't draw attention to their lack of IDs.

Tonight is just one of those nights, and Kurt sends a quick text to his boyfriend as he ducks home to change, inviting him along and promising to nurse both their hangovers in the morning.

**Can't, sorry. P's back—roommate 'bonding' session :/ Have fun tho 3**

Resisting the urge to snicker—Blaine's cousin/roommate Patrick is renowned for disappearing at the drop of the hat for weeks on end, only appearing in their apartment when his latest girlfriend dumps him or when his parents threaten to follow through on their threat to bring him home, and always insisting that he and Blaine "reconnect" each time—Kurt texts him the details of the club in return and promises to call when he arrives home.

An hour later sees him on the dance floor, clutching onto his fabulous fedora with one hand as he shakes and shimmies his hips in time to the beat. Two mimosas have left him pleasantly tipsy without being overly out-of-it, and he knows from experience to leave at least a thirty minute gap in between before he allows himself his third and final drink of the night.

"You go, boy!" Natalie hollers, she and Lincoln leaning on each other for support as they sway in time with the music, both teetering on the edge of "drunk".

He grins back, makes a mental note to force feed them water the next time he goes up to the bar, performs a complicated series of twists and turns that Mike had taught him Senior Year for their amusement. He's so caught up in trying to remember the steps that he barely registers someone moving to dancing closely behind him, assumes it's Laura or Daniel or another of their friends who have a tendency to breach others' personal space when they've had a few, much like Blaine does.

It's not until that someone puts their hands on his hips and grinds up against his ass that he realizes it's not someone he knows. He pulls away immediately, shoots the strange man an apologetic glance while still making clear that he's not remotely interested, forgetting about it almost immediately afterward as Natalie pulls him into a sloppy and energetic waltz, her giggles and Lincoln's laughter filling his ears as they swing around the dance floor.

He excuses himself to the restroom some time later, having made good on his promise to supply his friends with their much needed non-alcoholic beverages, and after attending to his business and washing his hands in the sink he takes the opportunity to judge his appearance in the mirror and tweak the position of his hat on his head, knowing that photographs of the night will inevitably make their way onto the internet and refusing to look anything but his best when they do.

The door swings open and closed behind him but he doesn't turn, granting the newcomer a brief nod as he joins him at the mirror.

"I saw you dancing," the stranger says, leaning in closely to Kurt. "You're pretty good."

Kurt smiles tightly, recognizes him now as the guy who had grabbed his hips. "Thank you." He turns on his heel to leave, but a strong hand wraps itself around his wrist, preventing him from moving more than a few steps.

"Pretty hot," the man slurs, his breath hot and uncomfortable upon Kurt's face. "You moving your hips like that… betcha you'd be good at other things, too."

Snatching his hand away, he informs him coolly that he's not interested, scowling when still the man persists. He's met guys like this before, ones that don't want to take no for an answer, and he's not so much bigger than Kurt that he's afraid. Apprehensive, of course, because he hates this. Absolutely hates it, hates it, hates it, so much so that whenever it happens he nearly longs for the days where others were afraid of touching him for fear that they might "catch the gay", as if it were a disease and he contagious.

"I said that I'm not interested," he says sharply, shoving the guy away roughly when he gets too close for comfort again. "I have a boyfriend, you cretin."

Stumbling backwards, his pursuer's eyes narrow and Kurt doesn't have time enough to react before a fist meets with his face, the swing clumsy and misaimed so that it hits the side of his cheek instead of his nose, its original target, but it's still enough to bruise. Still enough to _hurt._

"Fucking filthy little fucking tease." The man lurches forward again, to punch him or to try to grab him again, he's not sure, but he doesn't really even care because _no_. No, no, no.

When the jerk is close enough, Kurt raises his knee and hits him right between his thighs, hard, and the man falls to his knees howling in pain and clutching his crotch.

Breathing heavily, Kurt hurries out of there, brushing past another man who's on his way into the bathroom. Without stopping to pay his regards to his friends, he exits the club as quickly as he can, stumbling down the street for a block or so until he pulls himself together enough to hail a cab. Choking out his address, he waits until they've pulled away from the curb before burying his face in his hands, ignoring the ache in his cheek, and sobbing.

He's shaken more than he is anything; something like this has never happened to him in as long as he's been living here, in as long as it's been since that fateful day in the locker room all those years ago when Karofsky kissed him. People have made advances, sure—male and female alike, because apparently the men are a lot more metro here and even _he _can occasionally pass—but never like this. Never has an evening gone so horribly wrong before, never has he felt so truly _insignificant_ in the grand scope of New York City, so small and so invisible.

Throwing money at the driver, he all-but-runs upstairs, hastily wiping at his eyes when he stops to check his watch and realizes that Rachel may well still be up. He doesn't want her to see him like this, doesn't want to have to explain _this_. Cleaning up as best he can in the dim and empty hallway, he takes a deep breath and unlocks the door, readying himself to dash to his room without too much cross-examination from his well-meaning yet undeniably nosy roommate. Thankfully, his worries are unfounded: not only is Rachel not awake, she's not even at home, and he finds a note on the coffee table explaining that she is staying over at one of her friends and not to worry about including her in his breakfast plans as she'll grab something on the way home.

Not much of this registers in his mind; just enough that he realizes that he's all alone in the apartment and likely will be until lunchtime tomorrow, at the earliest. Suddenly, a deep ache of loneliness overcomes him and he begins to long for the warmth of another person nearby—safe and comforting and familiar.

Slowly, he walks to the bathroom and, taking care not to look in the mirror, he removes his hat and carelessly tosses it aside, splashing his face with cold water from the faucet and scrubbing harshly with a muslin cloth until his face tingles with the rawness of it. His cheek stings even when he presses the lightest of touches to it, so he avoids the entire left side of his face, concentrates on his chin and his forehead and his right cheek.

Finally, he grabs a towel and dries off, follows the familiar footsteps to his room and shuts the door firmly behind him. Sliding his phone out of his pocket, knowing he can no longer delay the inevitable, his fingers press out four words and then the digits of a long since memorized cell-phone number on autopilot, in too much of a haze even to bother with his contact list.

**I need you. Please.**

And then he waits.

:

"Hey, you never locked the door." Blaine's voice echoes from the hallway, and Kurt braces himself in anticipation, his body prone where he sits atop the bed, staring out of the tiny window and to the street below. Their apartment is on the fifth floor, so it doesn't afford them much in the way of views over the city scape, but it's better than most.

"You gotta be more careful about that, anyone could just walk in. Kurt?"

Closing his eyes, he turns slowly to face his boyfriend where he stands hesitantly in the doorway, clearly sensing that something's wrong. He waits with bated breath for the reaction. Knows his cheek must be several shades of purple by now; he's always bruised easily, his skin overly sensitive at the best of times, and he's sure it's not a particularly attractive look on him.

"It looks a lot worse than it is," he offers, several silent moments later, voice lilting high and low try though he may to steady it.

Swallowing thickly, Blaine just stares at him dumbly. "What… what the hell happened?"

Kurt winces at the roughness in his voice, the suppressed emotion behind the quietly uttered words. Biting his lip, he slowly explains what happened, thinks about trying to gloss over the details but knows from the glint in Blaine's eyes that any attempt at sugarcoating will not be well received.

"It's not that bad, Blaine. Really." He says firmly, attempting a wan smile. It comes out as a grimace.

"Not that bad?" Blaine hisses in return, still standing in the doorway, steadying himself against it. "_Not that bad_. Kurt, explain to me how this could _possibly _be worse!"

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Blaine pales, clearly envisioning the many ways that it so obviously could've been.

"He was drunk, completely smashed. The punch came out of nowhere, I wasn't expecting it, otherwise I could have dodged it pretty easily. I was never in any real danger. I promise, Blaine, it barely even hurts anymore."

Blaine lifts his hand to his face, presses his thumb and forefinger against his temples, says shakily: "You were alone with him in a bathroom in a club. Damnit, Kurt—anything could have happened, he could've… you could've been…"

Kurt stumbles forward, tries to take Blaine's hand in his but the other boy shakes his head, moves back a few steps. A pang of hurt erupts inside of Kurt's chest and tears spring to his eyes before he can quell them.

"Blaine." He breathes out, nearly a whimper.

"I should've been there! You texted, asked me to come… I could have stopped him, I could have protected you!"

It's Kurt's turn to shake his head, "You couldn't have predicted what happened. Nobody could."

"I should have protected you, Kurt!" Blaine shouts, the sheer volume of it causing Kurt to flinch. Blaine meets his eyes, and he can see the unshed tears and the pain behind the hazel globes he knows so well and his heart just about breaks when the shorter boy near-whispers, "It's my job to protect you."

Kurt doesn't reply at first, moves to sit on his bed again. "We can't be with each other twenty-four seven, Blaine. You know that. It's why we came up with the system, the three of us, the first week that we moved here." He scoots backwards until his back hits the headboard, pulls his knees up to his chest. "You knew the address of the club I was at and you knew who I was with and that I'd call when I arrived home. Just like you told me that you'd be with Patrick all night, and like Rachel left a note to tell me that she wouldn't be home. We take care of each other. All of us."

"It's not enough!" Blaine runs a furious hand through his hair.

"It's all we have!" Kurt snaps back, "You know every detail of my schedule, Blaine! You have cell-phone numbers for all of my friends, addresses for their houses… What more do you want?"

"I want you to understand that what happened to you tonight is pretty much my worst nightmare! Don't you get that? The thought of somebody ever hurting you… it terrifies me. I wake up at night literally _shaking _because in my dreams you're gone and I have to try and live on without you. You're the single most important thing in my life, did you know that? I love you so much that I can hardly freaking _breathe _sometimes, just the thought of losing you…" Blaine chokes on the last sentence, knees beginning to buckle under him as all of the fight drains out of him.

Kurt watches in silence as Blaine finally enters the room properly, blindly makes his way toward the bed and sits down heavily, doesn't resist when Kurt leans forward and finally wraps his arms around him.

"This is the world we live in, Blaine. You can't wrap me up in cotton wool." He says gently.

To anyone listening in it probably seems strange; Kurt's the one with the large, mottled bruise coloring his porcelain skin and yet it's he who's comforting Blaine, he who's whispering assurances and promises in Blaine's ear along with vehement statements of love and devotion. It's he who ends up holding Blaine through the night, never once relinquishing his hold.

The entirety of their conversation, Blaine's reaction, it probably seems ridiculously over-dramatic, and maybe it is. Kurt had dealt with worse his Junior Year, is well used to senseless acts of violence and of hate against his person. The bruise on his face is nothing compared to the countless locker-slams and shoves he had gotten throughout his high school years.

It's everything and it's nothing, all at the same time.

Nothing, because he's dealt with a lot worse. Everything, because New York was supposed to be his—their—fresh start, away from the prejudiced and bigoted town of Lima, OH, and this is the one stain on an otherwise picture-perfect year.

Academics aside, all of his fantasies of big-city life aside—New York is everything he'd ever dared to dream of as a scared and lonely teenager and always will be, because it has offered him acceptance. Not from everybody, barely even from the majority (the marriage bill only _just _passed after all), but from enough people that he walks down the street hand-in-hand with his boyfriend, completely unafraid as they plan their second anniversary while discussing the night they lost their virginities to one another.

He's eighteen years old, nearly nineteen. Blaine will be twenty later this year. If a drunken man throwing a punch at him seems like the worst thing in the world to them right now, it's because it is. But at the same time, if that's the worst thing that will ever befall either one of them then they will die very, very lucky men.

He holds his boyfriend—the man who's completely and utterly _devastated_ just from seeing him with a single bruise on his cheek—and promises that it will all be okay, almost believes it himself.

He's not naïve, far from it, but he refuses to be jaded. His life has too much happiness in it to ever allow himself to be overcome by the sorrow and the bitterness that many hardened New Yorkers so clearly have succumbed to.

:

He'd thought that Central Park would lose some of its magic the longer he lived in Manhattan. It's been nearly eight months; he's watched three seasons come and go, each leaving its own imprint on the city, and as the days grow steadily warmer as Spring gives way to Summer, he's still completely in awe of everything.

Winter's always been his favorite season, not least because outerwear is the fashion he favors most of all, but there's just something wonderful about Spring. The symbol of rebirth and renewal, he can definitely understand the appeal. After a harsh and bitter winter everything is scrubbed and cleaned anew, all of the dirt and the detritus and the debris. The air seems cleaner and more refreshing, and it's so easy for him to just take a moment and _breathe._

For the first time in months, hope is at the forefront of his mind. Hope that they'll make it through, that all of their hard work will pay off, that they're dreams will all come true.

"I love New York," Kurt breathes, letting the tightness in his chest and the stiffness of his spine loosen as he exhales. A smile lights up his face and he beams, positively glows, as he grips his boyfriend's hand tightly in his own.

Blaine, for his part, merely shakes his head and pulls Kurt in closer, turning the slender boy until they are locked together in a tight embrace, and Kurt can hear the smile in his voice as Blaine informs him that he's crazy.

"Crazy in love," Kurt teases in return, because it's the sort of cheesy line that Blaine is so oft to use.

It's the wrong thing to say.

"_I look and stare so deep in your eyes," _Blaine warbles, a wicked grin playing upon his lips. "_I touch on you more and more every time._"

"Don't. You. Dare." Kurt hisses, glaring daggers at his boyfriend. "I swear, I will walk away this instant."

Another grin, and oh Kurt's just walking himself into the lyrics now. "_When you leave I'm begging you not to go_."

Face flushing bright red, he can only stare in horror as Blaine's voice grows in volume and in confidence until he is belting out the lyrics in the middle of a busy walkway in Central Park.

When it comes to the chorus Blaine takes Kurt's had in his, tries to pull him into a dance—"_got me lookin' so crazy right now, your love's got me lookin' so crazy right now_"—and when that fails he rallies and performs a routine all of his own, shuffling and two-stepping his way around his mortified boyfriend.

By some small mercy, Blaine doesn't attempt to sing the rap verse, simply repeats the chorus twice, spontaneously dropping to his knees before Kurt as he sings the last line: "_Got me lookin' so crazy your love!_"

Beaming up at Kurt, Blaine's grin only spreads further across his face at the smattering of applause his performance garners.

"You are mortifying," Kurt informs him icily, resisting the sudden urge to kick his boyfriend where he kneels as he turns puppy-dog eyes upon him. "I swear to Gaga, I am getting you tested for ADHD."

Jumping to his feet, the other boy just shrugs and allows Kurt to pull him hastily away from the scene of the crime. "Mom beat you to it about ten years back. I am just _naturally exuberant_."

"Well, bully for you." Kurt snarks, though there's no great heat behind it. "One of these days, Blaine Warbler, I am going to just leave you there singing to thin air. I would have done it today if I hadn't known that you'd chase me and prolong the torture."

"Most people would be glad of an impromptu serenade." Blaine says, linking their fingers together as they continue at a more reasonable pace down the meandering path. "Besides, it was your 'I love New York' comment that started it all." They turn a corner and Blaine freezes, eyes spying something in the distance.

"What?" Kurt asks, frowning at their abrupt halt. He follows Blaine's gaze, immediately shakes his head when he sees the source of his boyfriend's attention. "No, no, no. Oh no. Forget it, Blaine. No way."

Ignoring him, Blaine just bounds across the grass, their linked hands forcing Kurt to follow behind though he does so with great protestation.

:

"What on earth…" Rachel trails off, stifling her giggles behind her hand as Kurt and Blaine stumble into the apartment.

Kurt raises a hand, says sternly. "I would like to state for the record that I was under _extreme _duress."

Blaine rolls his eyes, "You're the one who insisted we buy every accessory known to man." He thrusts out a wrist as proof, the various plastic bracelets and bands clattering off one another.

Pursing his lips, Kurt says tartly, "If you're going to do something, do it right."

Rachel can't contain her laughter anymore, her giggles spluttering out of her loudly and without restraint, and the girl is nearly bent double as she clutches her hands across her middle. "You… look… _ridiculous._"

Kurt and Blaine glance at each other, take in each other's appearance. Both are clad entirely in souvenirs and paraphernalia, the like of which is targeted mainly for tourists' consideration, and nearly every article has "I 3 NY" emblazoned across it in bold, usually red or black, letters. Even the laces of Blaine's shoes have the logo upon them and a baseball cap is perched atop his unruly curls, while Kurt's much-coveted D&G sunglasses have been temporarily replaced with a black standard pair with tacky diamanté lettering proclaiming an interlinked NY.

Both boast matching t-shirts—Kurt's a muted gray to match his jeans and Blaine's a striking fire-engine red—and carry gift bags with candy-canes and lollipops and even ceramic mugs.

"Au contraire, ma cherie." Kurt corrects with a grin, "We look _fabulous_. Trashy and over-commercialized, perhaps, but fabulous nonetheless." With that he snatches the baseball hat off of his boyfriend's head and plants it upon her own, drapes a previously unnoticed striped scarf around her neck and hands her a neon-pink t-shirt. "Now, hurry up and change, we have the caloric intake of a child for an entire year in these bags and I refuse to let Blaine eat it all unaided."

With that he pushes her toward her bedroom while he goes to the kitchen and pulls out a bottle of cheap tequila and three shot glasses.

"We're having a party?" Blaine questions, somewhat bemused when he sees the alcohol. He runs a finger through his hair, loosening the curls where they lay flattened from the hat.

"Party of three." He chirps in reply, setting the glasses down on the coffee table and filling each to the brim. He hands one to first Blaine and then his returning roommate, before lifting his own. They chink their glasses together, downing the umber liquid in a single gulp and gasping together as it burns their way down their throats.

Later, when they've each drank five shots apiece, the confessions inevitably start, the way they always do.

"I miss singing." Kurt's the first to go, biting into his rainbow lollipop and crunching on the hard candy. "Sometimes I wonder if I even _want _to be a designer, if I didn't just choose it because my voice doesn't suit many parts on Broadway." It's a thought he's had many times throughout the past year, though he's never voiced it until now.

Blaine gulps down another shot, "I'm thinking of switching majors. I just… I don't think that music's for me. I love singing, but I'm not sure I want to do it as a career. Singing in the park today… It just brought back how much fun it used to be, how I used to feel about expressing myself through song. I'm just not passionate about it anymore."

Rachel's face is the picture of shock—of she and Blaine, Blaine is the more successful in their separate classes by far, his easy personality and effortless voice endearing him to all that he meets, though he too has his fair share of rejection—but Kurt's not surprised. He's sensed Blaine's restlessness of late, his growing frustration with his course and his classes.

"I'm not a star anymore." Rachel intones quietly, nursing her drink as tears spring to her eyes. "I'm a nobody. Just another girl with a good voice who is not going anywhere any time soon. Shelby couldn't make it. April Rhodes became a laughing stock. Mr. Shuester didn't even try…"

He sighs, leans his head against Blaine's shoulder and finally puts down his glass. Together they sit in silence, gazes again locked upon the large landscape of Manhattan which hangs upon the wall. They've survived a year, nearly. They still have finals to get through, Kurt and Rachel have to talk to their landlord about finding someone to cover the lease while they go back to Lima for the summer, and Blaine has to decide if he wants to keep living with his always absent roommate or officially move in with Kurt and Rachel.

In a month's time, they'll all be back in their respective houses in Lima (Westerville, for Blaine), living under their parents' roofs for the duration of the summer.

The adjustment for Kurt and Blaine who have spent more nights together than not since the Fall will undoubtedly be difficult—Blaine's parents still are not completely comfortable with their relationship, and the Hudson-Hummels 'no sleep-overs with significant others' rule still stands as firmly as ever for both Kurt and Finn, much to their chagrin—but they're confident that they'll be able to get through it.

"We shouldn't be going home." Rachel says finally, after some twenty minutes of silence. "We should all have gotten internships—our classmates who have will all have an advantage next semester."

"We need to go home," Kurt replies softly, meets his roommate's eyes. "We need the break, Rachel." He doesn't add _you especially _but it hangs in the air around them; just another thing that they all know but don't say aloud.

She's close to breaking point, but he doesn't know how to help her. Knows that anything he says will only push her further away; the distance that she's put between her and them this evening tells him that. Whereas he and Blaine are tangled together to the point that they're almost one entity, she's at the far side of the room yet again so the few feet separating them could nearly be miles, the sense of detachment is so great.

"I'm not the one with the bruise on my face, Kurt." She snaps back, a fiery retort to the words that he hadn't spoken.

Kurt doesn't allow the insult to sting, to fester. His nature demands that he wound her in return, poke at one of the many weak spots that he'd discovered in their months sharing a too-small apartment, but he bites his tongue. He doesn't want to bicker, isn't willing to escalate the fight which she is so obviously trying to initiate as a way of venting her frustration.

Instead he just closes his eyes and readjusts his head where it lays. "We need the break." He repeats, allowing more vulnerability to enter his voice as he adds, "I miss my Dad. Carole and Finn and Mercedes, too, of course, but I _really _miss my Dad."

"We can meet up with everyone else from Glee. Talk to Mr. Shuester." Rachel says after a beat; a peace offering if not quite an apology.

"Take the time to figure out what we really want to do," Blaine adds, standing up and reaching for his jacket. From it he removes his camera, a tiny silver model which he always makes a point of carrying with him. "Get over here, Rachel." Deftly, he maneuvers it so that they're each in the frame, gently angles Kurt's head so that the bruise won't show.

A flash of light erupts from the lens, and a low click lets them know that the photo took. Blaine looks at it, turns the camera so that Rachel and Kurt can see the shot.

"Rachel's right," Kurt giggles, squeezes her hand, "we _do _look ridiculous." Apology accepted.

:

"Let's go on a road trip this summer," Kurt suggests as he rushes through his moisturizing routine, eager to get to his boyfriend who is already lying comfortably in bed.

"A road trip?" Blaine asks, eyebrows raised. "You want to go on a road trip. You_._"

"No need to sound so shocked, dear." He replies sardonically.

"Sorry, it's just… _you_ want to go on a road trip. Really, though?"

Kurt rolls his eyes, "I think we've established that by now, but yes, Blaine. I want to go on a road trip. With you. This summer."

Blaine blinks, still having trouble grasping the concept of _Kurt Hummel _volunteering to spend hours upon hours in a car, sleeping in hotels that he hasn't had the chance to preapprove and visiting towns which are smaller even than Lima. "Where to?"

"California." He says, biting back a smile as Blaine's eyes grow even wider. "Where else?" He teases, finally snapping the lid back on his moisturizer and pulling the elastic from his hair—a little sooner than he should have, in all honesty, but his face is dry enough—and readjusting his bangs. "_We drove to Cali, and got drunk on the beach._" He sings, laughing when Blaine's eyes immediately light up.

"_Got a motel and built a fort out of sheets._" Blaine takes the next line, pulling Kurt onto the bed the second he's in touching distance. Kurt squeals as he topples over, landing atop Blaine's chest with a thud. "_I finally found you, my missing puzzle piece._"

"_I'm complete._" Kurt joins in, easily keeping harmony though his heart is still beating heavily from the free-fall. He grins as he sings the next line solo, "_Let's go all the way tonight._ _No regrets_."

"_Just love." _They finish together, Kurt squealing again as Blaine turns them over so that he's on top, the squeal soon turning into a moan as Blaine presses kisses all along his collarbone.

"That's a yes to the road trip, then?" Kurt arches up from the bed as Blaine proceeds to show him just how agreeable he is.

~FIN~


End file.
